"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 2

Sunday, October 24th, 11:55 a.m.

Father Dan Cavanaugh stood on the front steps of St. Lawrence’s Church, squinting in the bright October sun. He greeted parishioners after the last Mass of the day. As usual for the 11 o’clock Mass, it had been a sparse and unenthusiastic crowd. Many had already departed right after communion. Now the rest were in a hurry to leave. Some paused briefly to shake hands with the priest and mumble, “Hi Father,” “Thanks, Father,” or, “Nice homily, Father.” Others took a wide path away from where the priest stood and avoided eye contact, lest a quick pleasantry delay their goal of exiting the parking lot as quickly as humanly possible.

Fr. Dan went through the motions of shaking hands, forcing a smile, and engaging in idle chit-chat. Then he looked over at the parking lot and was surprised to see his younger brother, Michael Cavanaugh, a detective with the West Hartford Police Department, leaning against the front of his car, an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. As Mrs. Mullen was about to begin complaining about the music—as she did at least twice each month—he cut her off with a pleasant but forceful, “And it’s so nice to see you, too, Mrs. M. Excuse me, please.” Then he broke away from her handshake and hurried down the steps, careful not to trip on his robes.

“Hi, Mikey!” Fr. Dan exclaimed as he shook his brother’s hand and grabbed him by the shoulder. “I thought I saw you sitting in the back pew.” Although Dan was two years older than Mike, at age 49 the priest was a veritable youngster among his fellow priests. Mike, on the other hand, at age 47, was a senior citizen in the law enforcement world. “You haven’t been to Mass in a while,” Fr. Dan said. “Why today?”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” Mike replied. “There was a murder last night a few blocks away from here. Quiet neighborhood off of Farmington Avenue. The guys from the State Police Crime Unit are crawling all over the place right now, so I thought I’d take a break and stop by, you know, to check out your act just in case I run into Mom and she asks what I thought of your homily. I assume she was at 7:30 Mass, right?”

“Of course. Front pew,” the priest said with a laugh. “My harshest critic. But what about this murder? Here in West Hartford? What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Mike answered. “The call came in about 6 a.m. I think the newspaper delivery guy found the body. A man laying in his driveway. One bullet hole in his head. Point blank.”

“Wow. Who did it?”

“I dunno,” Mike said. “No one saw anything. The victim’s girlfriend says she was sleeping upstairs, no more than 30 feet away. Didn’t hear a thing. Says she went to bed early while the guy was out watching the World Series with his buddies, probably at a bar.”

“Do you know his name?” Fr. Dan asked. “Is he in our parish?”

“We haven’t officially released any details yet, but we know him. Bad apple. Lots of D.U.I.’s. We found cocaine in his pocket. It was probably a drug deal gone bad. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’s not a member of your parish. You won’t have to do a funeral Mass this week, and say a bunch of nice things about a lowlife bum you never met.”

“Now, Mike, don’t laugh. I have to say those nice things for the grieving family. It gives them comfort. And I do have to do a funeral Mass this week—three of them! It seems half my parish is dying of old age, and the other half is leaving to join the Faith Cathedral.”

“Yeah, that place is a zoo,” the detective said. “Every Sunday morning New Britain Avenue is in gridlock. A real pain in the butt for the Traffic Control fellas. The Department should bill that church for all the extra overtime. We even see cars from out-of-state in their parking lot. Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New York. People come from all over to hear that guy preach.”

“Thanks for the update, Mikey,” the priest said with a scowl. “I appreciate you reminding me…of what a failure I am.”

“Oh Dan, come on. Don’t say that. It’s two totally different things. That guy, he’s into show biz. All those people show up because it’s like going to a concert. And you, you’re…I mean, we, we’re Catholic. You, you do the Mass. And the Mass is, you know, the Mass. It’s not flashy. Never was. it’s just…different.”

Fr. Dan nodded as he continued to scowl. It was obvious Mike’s stuttering attempt to boost his spirits wasn’t working. “And,” Mike concluded, “it’s important. The Mass is really important.”

“Right. Is that why you go only twice a year, you knucklehead, because it’s so important?”

“Now Danny, come on,” Mike said sternly. “You know the deal. Ever since Susan divorced me and then I met up with Monica, it’s not like I’m really welcomed anymore.”

“Little brother, let’s not go there again. You know what the Church teaches about that, and why. And you know my view on it. Jesus is just as much into love and forgiveness as He’s into rules and regulations and kicking some butt once in a while. You are always welcomed here.”

“Yeah, I know, big bro,” Mike said with a smile. “I’m just real busy.” Desperate to change the subject, Mike looked up with a playful grin and said, “Hey, speaking of kicking butt, I know I can kick yours!”

“Oh yeah?” the priest said with a hearty guffaw. “Never happened yet in 47 years, no matter how many times you tried, and never will!”

The two brothers embraced again in a tight hug. Finally Fr. Dan said, “It is really good to see you, Mikey. Don’t be a stranger. Stop by more often.”

“Sure,” the cop replied. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you tonight at Mom’s for dinner—if she’ll let me in.”

“Hmm, when was that last time you were at her house, you know, the first and only time you walked in…with Monica?”

“Uh, almost a year ago.”

“Well,” Fr. Dan said thoughtfully, “she might be over it—maybe. I’m not really sure.”

“Yeah, good point,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I’d better steer clear of the old homestead for a little while longer.”

“Yeah,” the priest said. After a pause, he added, “Take care of yourself, Mike. I mean, really. Be careful. A drug murder in West Hartford! What the hell?!”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem, Danny,” Mike said as he opened the door of his car. “I’ll be fine. And what the hell kind of talk is that for a priest, huh? Now you gotta go to Confession for swearing!”

“Get outta here, you knucklehead!” Fr. Dan said with a big smile. He slapped the hood of Mike’s car as it backed out of the parking space. He really loved his younger brother, and he worried about him. He worried about his safety because of his job, and he worried about his soul.

Fr. Dan looked up and glanced around. The parking lot was almost empty. He turned back toward the church and saw Mrs. Mullen waiting impatiently at the bottom of the steps. Her arms were folded and her lips were pursed. Oh crap, the priest thought. Now I really gotta go to Confession—for what I’m thinking about her.

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